The short-haired man lifted the leather wineskin to his lips, took several deep gulps through the wooden spout, let out a long belch, wiped the spilled wine from his beard with his sleeve, and sneered.
"Compensation? Compensation my ass! That bastard Covins…"
He glanced around nervously. Seeing no one else nearby, he lowered his voice.
"He's always had it in for me. If a few of the lads weren't still loyal, he'd have cut me loose and gone solo ages ago… You lot can have your fun with the women later. When you're finished, take them back and let those damn fools raise your bastards."
The younger man beside him laughed loudly.
"Boss, you're straight to the point! Mind if I go first? Can I have the one hanging dead in the tree?"
The boss looked up, squinted at the naked woman dangling from the branch, then spat on the ground in disgust.
"Filthy."
The young man rubbed his hands together eagerly and began climbing the tree.
The skinny man with rotten teeth stared longingly at the five bound girls huddled at the edge of the camp. He swallowed hard. Unfortunately the roast hen he was turning over the fire wasn't done yet; otherwise he would have slipped away while the others were distracted and taken the first taste himself.
Just as the young man reached the branch and began fumbling with the ropes, something heavy and irregularly shaped thudded onto the ground beside the campfire.
The rotten-toothed man and the short-haired boss—who had been drinking and roasting—froze for a second.
Then the object rolled to a stop. When the matted brown hair fell away, a twisted, agonized face stared up at them.
It was their old comrade, "Lucky" Shane.
"Ah!"
"Shane!"
Both men shot to their feet in shock.
Before they could react, a tall figure in gleaming golden plate armor burst from the darkness. A longsword—still in its scabbard—whipped through the air and cracked against the short-haired man's skull with a dull *thunk*. The boss crumpled instantly.
Ethan dodged sideways as the rotten-toothed man lunged wildly. A single plated fist smashed into the skinny man's face. Rotten Tooth dropped like a sack. Ethan followed with a brutal kick to the shin.
There was a sharp *crack*. Rotten Tooth screamed, clutching his shattered leg.
The young man still in the tree stared in stunned disbelief. Realizing the camp was under attack, he leapt blindly from the branch—straight onto Ethan's back, arms locking around his throat.
The added weight barely made Ethan stagger. He planted his feet, pushed off the ground, and hurled himself backward—slamming the young raider hard against the rough trunk of the tree.
The man groaned as the air was driven from his lungs. His grip loosened.
Ethan spun, drove a series of heavy gauntleted punches into the raider's chest and face. Blood sprayed. The young man slid down the trunk and collapsed in a heap, coughing red.
Another clean victory.
Kevin emerged from the trees, frowning in quiet frustration.
*Again* he had missed the fight.
Sir Ethan was simply too fast. At this rate, what was there left for him to learn?
Ethan glanced at the young raider still wheezing and spitting blood on the ground. He cracked his knuckles.
Then he looked up.
A pale, naked figure swayed gently from a high branch—a young woman, neck grotesquely compressed by the noose.
Her legs and arms were scraped raw; matching streaks of blood and torn skin marked the trunk where she had kicked and struggled in her final moments.
Ethan drew "Sea Serpent Strike," leapt, and with a light flick of the blade severed the rope.
The woman's rigid body fell, landing across the young raider with a meaty thud. He gave another pained grunt.
"Kevin," Ethan said without turning, "go bring Claire."
He looked toward the cluster of bound girls kneeling silently in the grass, staring at him with wide, unreadable eyes.
A sudden, irrational fear gripped him.
He didn't dare approach them—afraid they would tell him yet another unbearable story.
A moment later Claire appeared, following Kevin from the shadows where they had waited.
When she saw her friends—girls she had grown up with—kneeling helpless and filthy, she ran forward sobbing. She dropped to her knees beside them, tugging frantically at the ropes while tears streamed down her face.
Ethan quietly drew his dagger and tossed it point-first into the dirt beside her.
Then he turned away and walked to Rotten Tooth, who was still howling and clutching his ruined leg.
"Are you the leader?" Ethan asked.
Rotten Tooth glared up at him and kept wailing.
Ethan gave a cold smile. He raised his right leg high and stomped down—directly onto the already broken shin.
The bone gave another sickening *crunch* as it bent at an unnatural angle.
"Aaaaaaah! It wasn't me—it was him! It was him!! The short-haired one!!"
Ethan nodded once, walked back to the young raider still slumped against the tree, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him upright.
"Who's the leader?"
The young man managed a weak, bloody grin—then spat a thick gob of red saliva straight at Ethan's visor.
Though defiant, his eyes involuntarily flicked toward the unconscious short-haired boss.
Ethan calmly raised his gauntlet, wiped the spit away, then backhanded the man so hard his head snapped sideways.
He dropped the half-dead raider, walked to the short-haired man, seized him by the ankle, and dragged him into the darkness beyond the campfire.
As he passed the fallen woman's body, he paused.
Without looking back he asked:
"Claire… who is this? Do you know her?"
Claire—still sawing at ropes—turned at the question.
When she saw the woman on the ground she cried out,
"Aunt Amy!"
Ethan nodded once.
He couldn't bear to look any longer.
"I'll lend you the dagger for now. I don't need these two anymore. Deal with them however you want. Kevin—come with me."
He left the camp without another word.
Behind him, the two barely breathing raiders lay where they had fallen.
The girls—faces streaked with tears—quietly hid their bloodied hands behind their backs and looked at him with something between fear and desperate gratitude.
Ethan pretended not to notice.
He simply gathered up the scattered ropes from the ground and walked away.
When he returned to where he had left the short-haired boss, he used the very cords that had bound the girls to truss the man's upper body tightly. He then bound the ankles together—leaving just enough slack for shuffling steps, but not enough to run.
After a few hard tugs to test the knots, Ethan dusted off his gauntlets in satisfaction.
"Let's go. Drag him back to the fire—but keep him close. Those girls are… emotional. Don't let them kill him. This one hasn't told us everything yet. But that's fine. We'll hand him over to the local garrison officer and let them sort it out. Six dead pirates and one live prisoner—not a bad gift for whatever lord claims this stretch of coast."
With that Ethan strode back toward the girls.
He glanced at the two raiders still clinging to life.
Frowning, he asked:
"Not finished yet?"
The tone was flat—almost cruel.
Claire and one of the other girls exchanged a quick glance.
Claire gritted her teeth, gripped the dagger in both hands, approached the younger raider, raised the blade high…
…and froze.
She couldn't do it.
Ethan sighed softly.
"Never mind. Give it back."
Claire hesitated a long moment, then reluctantly placed the dagger in his outstretched gauntlet.
Ethan took it, stepped forward, and drove the point straight into the young raider's heart.
"Don't be a bandit in your next life."
He repeated the motion on the second dying man, wiped the blade once more, sheathed it, and returned to the campfire.
He sat on a flat rock the raiders had used as a stool.
"Claire—since we saved you, the least you can do is help us eat. These bastards should still have some supplies, right?"
"Yes—yes, of course. We'll get them now."
Hearing a simple, practical request seemed to snap the girls out of their daze. They moved quickly—almost eagerly—gathering pots, kindling, and the raiders' stolen provisions.
The food was mostly taken from their own village—familiar ingredients they knew how to cook.
Ethan watched them quietly wash vegetables, stoke the fire, and speak in low voices among themselves.
For the first time since the rescue, faint traces of normalcy—almost smiles—began to appear on their faces.
He knew the two "doses of strong medicine" he had deliberately left behind had done their work.
These girls were still young.
They could not live forever with rage and trauma.
The most effective way to help them begin to release the pain was to let them personally repay a small measure of what had been done to them.
In the end Ethan used the short-haired prisoner as an improvised seat—placing the tightly bound man facedown on the ground and sitting squarely on his back.
There was no other choice.
When Kevin had dragged the prisoner back to the fire, two of the most traumatized girls had immediately snatched up stones and charged.
If Ethan hadn't intervened they would have beaten the man to death then and there.
Every medicine has side effects.
This particular "cure" for shattered hearts was no exception.
Ethan had no intention of letting the girls he had saved develop a taste for cruelty or torture.
So he held the last living raider down himself—Kevin simply wasn't strong enough to restrain the man if the girls rushed again.
When the steaming food was finally ready and set before them, the ragged group of men and women around the fire at last shared something resembling quiet, weary relief.
For the first time in days, faint smiles appeared.